So.... I'm a dad now. Have been for 6 weeks. It's flying by. Turns out it isn't full time work that makes time go quickly; it's just life.
I don't remember too much about how I've been feeling over the days since Myla arrived in the world, which was why I was wanting to reinvigorate the blog so I can capture it. I'm off work on Shared Parental Leave, which in my pre-delivery mind meant I'd have long days filled with bonding with my daughter, hanging by the sea and honing my typing skills. Reality is that we seem to spend most of our time either getting ready for bed or getting dressed in the morning - the bit in between just pings past in a blur of feeding and winding.
We are, at least, managing to make it out of the house most days for a walk by the sea - each time reinforcing our decision to relocate from London late last year in advance of parenthood. I can't see us making as much effort to peel ourselves of the sofa for a walk round Crystal Palace park. My instagram posts have improved immeasurably as well.
As I type, mother and daughter are passed out on the sofa together, Myla having reached yet another milestone today as her farts when from "noisy but inoffensive" to "silent but deadly". We may as well have an aging labrador rather than a small baby. Utterly noxious. This comes a few days after she emitted a poo fountain when I was mid nappy change - instinctive reflexes saw me jump out of the way as it arced from her bum through the air towards me which merely ensured it landed on our oatmeal coloured carpet. It now looks like we've spilled curry sauce everywhere, and the internet suggests it's virtually impossible to get out. I feel it's important to note these events for future reference should I ever need to make a speech at her wedding. Don't get me started on the time in the early days when she pissed in her own eye, I'll be here all night.
Saturday, March 05, 2016
Sunday, February 14, 2016
That worked then...
Seems the app works then, as long as I stick to text in my posts. I spent a decent amount of time crafting a post very early this morning, only for it to crash when I attempted to add a photo. The post in general is now stuck in blog purgatory, in uneditable draft form, and I can't publish it as the photo "can't be found". I can't delete the photo from the post either as it causes the Blogger app to melt and close itself.
I'll revisit the general themes of that great lost post next time around. Essentially an introduction to my latest return to the blogosphere and the reasons behind it. Which, in the interests of avoiding suspense, revolve (along with the rest of my life now) around the 3.5 week old bundle of squeaks, burps, wriggles and farts lying in a crib next to me.
Test
Attempting to post from the Blogger app, which seems buggy as hell to say the least. Bit rich for me to rock up after nearly two years and start moaning about the state of Blogger I suppose.
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Running and Writing.
pretty much every post since around 2011 has been me going "oh, look how long it's been since my last post...gonna start blogging again....posterity.....zzzzzzz".
None of that shit this time round (except for what I've just written). I made it through the whole of 2013 - some may say the most momentous year of my life to date - without so much as a letter typed, so all bets and expectations are off.
My Christmases sometimes have a present "theme" - in the early 80s it was Star Wars or Lego; this year it was running. Yep, that Tattie is still running. If I'd bothered to tell you last year, you'd know that my first prolonged period of consistent exercise, combined with continued abstinence from fags and some healthy competition from my mate Murray and assorted others, resulted in my Personal Bests tumbling on an almost constant basis.
At the British 10K in July 2012, as Britain was starting to show a passing interest in the upcoming Olympics (and the day before I was packed off to Bangalore for 3 weeks with work), I busted a gut breaking the 50 minute mark for the second time in my life, shaving 9 seconds off my PB (in 49:26). In late September I brought it down to 48-something, then in November at the Old Deer Park run in Richmond I crossed the line in 47:48. I liked this as a PB, because it was easy to remember.
Unfortunately, after a bit of a dip at the Bromley 10K in January last year (following 10 days in Poland over Christmas breathing in 2nd hand smoke and not running), where I staggered home last out of the 4 of us who were in the process of founding the Diamond League of Mediocre Joggers (although still managing just over 50 minutes), I lined up on my home turf for the Frank Harmer 10K in Brockwell Park, organised by Herne Hill Harriers.
Brockwell Park is where I first started to run way back in 2006. I dread to think what combined distance I've run around its perimeter, or how many times I've wheezed and grimaced up the back hill. I wasn't looking forward to attempting an actual race there, having generally managed to run around 16 minutes a lap when training, around a path approximately 2.7 km in length. It didn't take much mental arithmetic to calculate that this would see me struggling to break an hour for a full 10k - my previous slowest ever time being 57 minutes in Central Park in New York back in 2011. That came after a full week of boozing, smoking and sightseeing and very little training - this would be on my home track, and was 3 full laps plus a bit extra. I was seriously worried about getting lapped, and my sparring partner Murray was continuing to improve dramatically, unofficially beating my PB in Bromley. It was completely unexpected therefore to find myself overtaking him midway through the final lap as we passed my then-fiancée (who'd made the 2 minute walk from our flat just in time to see us go past) and come home in a PB-busting 46:39 - somewhere in the mid-60s in terms of finishers.
Following on from that, with a bit of hiatus for the small matter of my wedding, I ran 46:43, again around Brockwell Park, last August, and then, during the build up to the Royal Parks Half Marathon, smashed my PB to smithereens for the 6th time in 15 months, finishing the 10K for Crohns (who says running ain't sexy?) round Hyde Park in 45:05. So very close all of a sudden to the mythical 45 minute barrier - something I had identified after that British 10K in July 2012 as being the ultimate goal for my running career. (Murray, incidentally, scarcely even noticed the barrier as he powered through it, finally putting me in my place once and for all with a huge new PB of 44:04 in the same race).
I really enjoyed the Royal Parks HM on October the 6th, run in bright autumnal sunshine round what is surely one of the best courses in the world. I knocked 8 minutes of my HM PB, coming home in 1:42 and getting a measure of revenge over Murray for the 10K defeat a few weeks earlier, as I beat him by 2 minutes. This was followed up by an injury-ravaged Great South Run in Portsmouth at the end of October, run in pre-Hurricane conditions with a gammy IT Band which had prevented me from doing any real training for 3 weeks between the Royal Parks and arriving on the south coast. I'd never run a 10 mile race before though, so this can also be classed as a PB - another fantastic course with amazing support, which I completed in around 1:21.
So - I'd got quite into my running, helped further by our relocation from Brixton out to the relative rural bliss of Hampton, sandwiched between Bushy Park and the River Thames. It's prime running territory around here, the former home of Mo Farah - as testified by his golden mailbox on the high street (opposite the branch of Sweatshop he used to work in).
An Amazon wishlist was duly compiled in early December, and for Christmas, I received three running-themed books, which I devoured in a couple of weeks on my lengthy commutes to and from Waterloo - Eat & Run, by Scott Jurek; Running with the Kenyans, by Andharanand Finn; and What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, by Haruki Murakami.
There are common themes running (sorry) through all of these books, despite their differing subject matter. They all agree that distance running is as much (if not more) about mental strength than raw talent; about pushing to the edge of your limits to discover more about yourself. They acknowledge that there is a certain type of person who tends to run - everyone can do it, but only certain people choose to, and embrace it. I wouldn't claim to be the sort of person who wholeheartedly throws himself into the benefits of running - I'm too easily persuaded that other things are more important that the 7 km run I had planned - but there is a reason, I believe, that I am still sitting here talking about running on a blog I started 8 years ago prior to my first 10K.
Many people do a race to tick it off a bucket list, or jog because they feel they should. Despite my intermittent outings, I believe I am a runner. It takes a certain type of personality to enjoy the experience, and as a number of the books say, if you ask someone why they run, they probably won't be able to explain it. Yes, I think whilst doing it, but don't ask me to relay what I thought about when I get back. I am a happier, more upbeat person when I run regularly. I like other runners. Most runners are very sound, well adjusted, calm human beings. It may be through the meditative or philosophical aspects running long distances, often alone, brings to people. If you're in need of constant excitement or stimulation or male bonding, it's probably better to stick to football.
Likewise, running is a peculiarly self-absorbed "sport", excluding competitions. Of course I want to challenge myself against the friends I enter races with, but the likelihood of being similarly paced to any of them is slim. Murray and I drive each other on because, all things being equal, we are too. If we train the same amount as each other, we're fairly evenly matched. But ultimately, when Murray killed that 10K with a 44.04, I wasn't devastated he beat me by over a minute. There was no way I could have run that fast. I'd destroyed my own personal best by a minute and a half - which blew me away. If I'd beaten Murray but finished a minute and a half off my best, I probably would have been disappointed. Most sports aren't about quietly challenging yourself to beat personal targets. No one cares about how you do except you. But the feeling of wanting to achieve something within your capabilities, and then working towards doing so, is immensely satisfying.
The other common theme of the books is - naturally - that they were all written by runners. There is a link between running and writing as well, not least in Haruki Murakami's memoir. He runs so he can write, and the book draws on the parallels between the two activities; why one enables him to do the other. It got me thinking about this blog, and about how - once upon a time - I harboured dreams of writing professionally. Those have passed, but I still enjoy creating sentences. Twitter and maturity have made it harder for me to make the time to sit at a computer like I have tonight, and write whatever is on my mind for an hour. But I think that these two aspects - running and writing - are fairly fundamental to my character. I may not be particularly good at either by any common yardstick, but that's the point. It's not about comparison to the rest of the field, unless you get to be part of the elite. It's about whether or not what you do makes you feel better about yourself. Running and writing do both for me, even though I don't always get round to doing them as much as I'd want. I class myself as a runner. It took me a long time and I used to wonder how someone knew whether they were a jogger or a runner. Turns out it's like love - you just know when it happens. For me, it was on South Croxted Road in West Dulwich one dark week night around 2 years ago. I became aware of the distance I'd travelled, the speed I was going, and the movement of my legs, and it clicked. After 5 years, I wasn't a huffing, puffing, jogger anymore, I was a runner! And in the same way, through practice and training and setting myself little private targets, I will continue to type words on a screen in the hope that my PB improves. With both, all I want to do is enjoy doing it, have some time to get my thoughts in order, and be able to feel that I wrung the most out of what little ability I was blessed with whilst I still could.
None of that shit this time round (except for what I've just written). I made it through the whole of 2013 - some may say the most momentous year of my life to date - without so much as a letter typed, so all bets and expectations are off.
My Christmases sometimes have a present "theme" - in the early 80s it was Star Wars or Lego; this year it was running. Yep, that Tattie is still running. If I'd bothered to tell you last year, you'd know that my first prolonged period of consistent exercise, combined with continued abstinence from fags and some healthy competition from my mate Murray and assorted others, resulted in my Personal Bests tumbling on an almost constant basis.
At the British 10K in July 2012, as Britain was starting to show a passing interest in the upcoming Olympics (and the day before I was packed off to Bangalore for 3 weeks with work), I busted a gut breaking the 50 minute mark for the second time in my life, shaving 9 seconds off my PB (in 49:26). In late September I brought it down to 48-something, then in November at the Old Deer Park run in Richmond I crossed the line in 47:48. I liked this as a PB, because it was easy to remember.
Unfortunately, after a bit of a dip at the Bromley 10K in January last year (following 10 days in Poland over Christmas breathing in 2nd hand smoke and not running), where I staggered home last out of the 4 of us who were in the process of founding the Diamond League of Mediocre Joggers (although still managing just over 50 minutes), I lined up on my home turf for the Frank Harmer 10K in Brockwell Park, organised by Herne Hill Harriers.
Brockwell Park is where I first started to run way back in 2006. I dread to think what combined distance I've run around its perimeter, or how many times I've wheezed and grimaced up the back hill. I wasn't looking forward to attempting an actual race there, having generally managed to run around 16 minutes a lap when training, around a path approximately 2.7 km in length. It didn't take much mental arithmetic to calculate that this would see me struggling to break an hour for a full 10k - my previous slowest ever time being 57 minutes in Central Park in New York back in 2011. That came after a full week of boozing, smoking and sightseeing and very little training - this would be on my home track, and was 3 full laps plus a bit extra. I was seriously worried about getting lapped, and my sparring partner Murray was continuing to improve dramatically, unofficially beating my PB in Bromley. It was completely unexpected therefore to find myself overtaking him midway through the final lap as we passed my then-fiancée (who'd made the 2 minute walk from our flat just in time to see us go past) and come home in a PB-busting 46:39 - somewhere in the mid-60s in terms of finishers.
Following on from that, with a bit of hiatus for the small matter of my wedding, I ran 46:43, again around Brockwell Park, last August, and then, during the build up to the Royal Parks Half Marathon, smashed my PB to smithereens for the 6th time in 15 months, finishing the 10K for Crohns (who says running ain't sexy?) round Hyde Park in 45:05. So very close all of a sudden to the mythical 45 minute barrier - something I had identified after that British 10K in July 2012 as being the ultimate goal for my running career. (Murray, incidentally, scarcely even noticed the barrier as he powered through it, finally putting me in my place once and for all with a huge new PB of 44:04 in the same race).
I really enjoyed the Royal Parks HM on October the 6th, run in bright autumnal sunshine round what is surely one of the best courses in the world. I knocked 8 minutes of my HM PB, coming home in 1:42 and getting a measure of revenge over Murray for the 10K defeat a few weeks earlier, as I beat him by 2 minutes. This was followed up by an injury-ravaged Great South Run in Portsmouth at the end of October, run in pre-Hurricane conditions with a gammy IT Band which had prevented me from doing any real training for 3 weeks between the Royal Parks and arriving on the south coast. I'd never run a 10 mile race before though, so this can also be classed as a PB - another fantastic course with amazing support, which I completed in around 1:21.
So - I'd got quite into my running, helped further by our relocation from Brixton out to the relative rural bliss of Hampton, sandwiched between Bushy Park and the River Thames. It's prime running territory around here, the former home of Mo Farah - as testified by his golden mailbox on the high street (opposite the branch of Sweatshop he used to work in).
An Amazon wishlist was duly compiled in early December, and for Christmas, I received three running-themed books, which I devoured in a couple of weeks on my lengthy commutes to and from Waterloo - Eat & Run, by Scott Jurek; Running with the Kenyans, by Andharanand Finn; and What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, by Haruki Murakami.
There are common themes running (sorry) through all of these books, despite their differing subject matter. They all agree that distance running is as much (if not more) about mental strength than raw talent; about pushing to the edge of your limits to discover more about yourself. They acknowledge that there is a certain type of person who tends to run - everyone can do it, but only certain people choose to, and embrace it. I wouldn't claim to be the sort of person who wholeheartedly throws himself into the benefits of running - I'm too easily persuaded that other things are more important that the 7 km run I had planned - but there is a reason, I believe, that I am still sitting here talking about running on a blog I started 8 years ago prior to my first 10K.
Many people do a race to tick it off a bucket list, or jog because they feel they should. Despite my intermittent outings, I believe I am a runner. It takes a certain type of personality to enjoy the experience, and as a number of the books say, if you ask someone why they run, they probably won't be able to explain it. Yes, I think whilst doing it, but don't ask me to relay what I thought about when I get back. I am a happier, more upbeat person when I run regularly. I like other runners. Most runners are very sound, well adjusted, calm human beings. It may be through the meditative or philosophical aspects running long distances, often alone, brings to people. If you're in need of constant excitement or stimulation or male bonding, it's probably better to stick to football.
Likewise, running is a peculiarly self-absorbed "sport", excluding competitions. Of course I want to challenge myself against the friends I enter races with, but the likelihood of being similarly paced to any of them is slim. Murray and I drive each other on because, all things being equal, we are too. If we train the same amount as each other, we're fairly evenly matched. But ultimately, when Murray killed that 10K with a 44.04, I wasn't devastated he beat me by over a minute. There was no way I could have run that fast. I'd destroyed my own personal best by a minute and a half - which blew me away. If I'd beaten Murray but finished a minute and a half off my best, I probably would have been disappointed. Most sports aren't about quietly challenging yourself to beat personal targets. No one cares about how you do except you. But the feeling of wanting to achieve something within your capabilities, and then working towards doing so, is immensely satisfying.
The other common theme of the books is - naturally - that they were all written by runners. There is a link between running and writing as well, not least in Haruki Murakami's memoir. He runs so he can write, and the book draws on the parallels between the two activities; why one enables him to do the other. It got me thinking about this blog, and about how - once upon a time - I harboured dreams of writing professionally. Those have passed, but I still enjoy creating sentences. Twitter and maturity have made it harder for me to make the time to sit at a computer like I have tonight, and write whatever is on my mind for an hour. But I think that these two aspects - running and writing - are fairly fundamental to my character. I may not be particularly good at either by any common yardstick, but that's the point. It's not about comparison to the rest of the field, unless you get to be part of the elite. It's about whether or not what you do makes you feel better about yourself. Running and writing do both for me, even though I don't always get round to doing them as much as I'd want. I class myself as a runner. It took me a long time and I used to wonder how someone knew whether they were a jogger or a runner. Turns out it's like love - you just know when it happens. For me, it was on South Croxted Road in West Dulwich one dark week night around 2 years ago. I became aware of the distance I'd travelled, the speed I was going, and the movement of my legs, and it clicked. After 5 years, I wasn't a huffing, puffing, jogger anymore, I was a runner! And in the same way, through practice and training and setting myself little private targets, I will continue to type words on a screen in the hope that my PB improves. With both, all I want to do is enjoy doing it, have some time to get my thoughts in order, and be able to feel that I wrung the most out of what little ability I was blessed with whilst I still could.
Monday, September 24, 2012
7th post in a year, I bet you think you're pretty clever, don't ya boy?
So it's finally come to this. Six posts since this time last year. One every two months on average.
In truth, the only reason I'm back here is because some auto-spambot has been posting comments under my most recent (e.g, written last March) post and, faced with emails telling me that the twentieth attempt to do so in a couple of days had just taken place, I started to get increasingly downhearted that the site that had proven my mouthpiece to the world in the early days of broadband had just been abandoned to its fate.
Nothing to say cheerio, thanks for reading, see you later; just the virtual equivalent of an overgrown cottage down a country lane - with a table still set for dinner and a yellowing copy of a 1987 TV Times lying open at the day when it all stopped. Like it was supposed to continue, but mysteriously just... didn't.
This blog doesn't deserve that fate. Weirdly, I sort of view it as a bit of a friend - a constant companion to my life since 2006. Back then, I had just returned from a life-changing trip to Scandinavia. "Bit melodramatic", you might think, but whilst it's not quite in the league of a massive lottery win, that's what I think it was.
In the first half of that year I'd been spending my working days utterly miserable in a rubbish, mundane job; I was probably a bit depressed and when I wasn't at work or passed out in bed, I could be found down one of my local boozers, most probably the Prince Albert in Brixton (after work) or the Old Monk at Aldgate East (every lunch hour). I ended up in the doctor's surgery in February with all the signs of panic attacks, ascribed by an admittedly cold-faced GP as being a result of my hard drinking, heavy smoking, not sleeping lifestyle.
Bizarrely, it was a trip to Danish Rock festival Roskilde that summer that triggered a change in my perspective. Four days of genuine relaxation in the sunshine, away from my routine in London, followed - significantly - by a trip to Malmo to spend some time with other friends gave me pretty much my first time away from London (with the exception of trips home) in 3 years. In Sweden, I was over-whelmed by the lifestyle I observed; a mixture of controlled drinking and mass enjoyment of open air entertainment; gigs, the World Cup on the big screen, swimming in the Baltic. I resolved whilst watching a reggae concert one evening that I would sort myself out when I got back and stop wallowing in whatever rut I'd made for myself.
When I got back, I shocked my friends by turning up for a barbecue clutching a litre of fruit juice and a couple of bottles of beer for the entire evening. I shamelessly hijacked a friend's idea to run a 10K for charity and create a blog to encourage sponsorship - the evolution of which you read now. I, along with a great bunch of mates, made the absolute most of the long, hot summer of '06 by attending what seemed like a different music festival around London every weekend. And as summer slipped into a warm autumn, I ran that first 10K, and finally asked the barmaid from the Albert out on a date - almost justification of my 18 months of alcohol abuse watching her from afar.
I'm running my 9th 10K on Saturday (and have also completed 2 half marathons). I got engaged to Justyna ("the barmaid") in Santorini in May. In between these two events, unnoticed as yet by the blog, I've been to India with work, attended the 2012 Olympics and been promoted for the second time in 15 months.
The route from Malmo to here is largely encapsulated in the 948 posts on See That Tattie Run to date, and for that reason I owe it to myself to continue writing it - at least until I choose to call it a day. I have a lot to remind myself about in years to come - it's been a hell of a year so far, which ironically contributes to my lack of time to document it. I've no doubt that there will come a time where I go more than a year between updates; but I'd like to think that what started way back in July 2006 will keep going in some shape or form until I'm well into old age, and form a 'Who do you think you are'/'How I met your mother' (Google (or equivalent) them, readers from the future) for myself in my dotage and anyone else who happens to stop by.
In truth, the only reason I'm back here is because some auto-spambot has been posting comments under my most recent (e.g, written last March) post and, faced with emails telling me that the twentieth attempt to do so in a couple of days had just taken place, I started to get increasingly downhearted that the site that had proven my mouthpiece to the world in the early days of broadband had just been abandoned to its fate.
Nothing to say cheerio, thanks for reading, see you later; just the virtual equivalent of an overgrown cottage down a country lane - with a table still set for dinner and a yellowing copy of a 1987 TV Times lying open at the day when it all stopped. Like it was supposed to continue, but mysteriously just... didn't.
This blog doesn't deserve that fate. Weirdly, I sort of view it as a bit of a friend - a constant companion to my life since 2006. Back then, I had just returned from a life-changing trip to Scandinavia. "Bit melodramatic", you might think, but whilst it's not quite in the league of a massive lottery win, that's what I think it was.
In the first half of that year I'd been spending my working days utterly miserable in a rubbish, mundane job; I was probably a bit depressed and when I wasn't at work or passed out in bed, I could be found down one of my local boozers, most probably the Prince Albert in Brixton (after work) or the Old Monk at Aldgate East (every lunch hour). I ended up in the doctor's surgery in February with all the signs of panic attacks, ascribed by an admittedly cold-faced GP as being a result of my hard drinking, heavy smoking, not sleeping lifestyle.
Bizarrely, it was a trip to Danish Rock festival Roskilde that summer that triggered a change in my perspective. Four days of genuine relaxation in the sunshine, away from my routine in London, followed - significantly - by a trip to Malmo to spend some time with other friends gave me pretty much my first time away from London (with the exception of trips home) in 3 years. In Sweden, I was over-whelmed by the lifestyle I observed; a mixture of controlled drinking and mass enjoyment of open air entertainment; gigs, the World Cup on the big screen, swimming in the Baltic. I resolved whilst watching a reggae concert one evening that I would sort myself out when I got back and stop wallowing in whatever rut I'd made for myself.
When I got back, I shocked my friends by turning up for a barbecue clutching a litre of fruit juice and a couple of bottles of beer for the entire evening. I shamelessly hijacked a friend's idea to run a 10K for charity and create a blog to encourage sponsorship - the evolution of which you read now. I, along with a great bunch of mates, made the absolute most of the long, hot summer of '06 by attending what seemed like a different music festival around London every weekend. And as summer slipped into a warm autumn, I ran that first 10K, and finally asked the barmaid from the Albert out on a date - almost justification of my 18 months of alcohol abuse watching her from afar.
I'm running my 9th 10K on Saturday (and have also completed 2 half marathons). I got engaged to Justyna ("the barmaid") in Santorini in May. In between these two events, unnoticed as yet by the blog, I've been to India with work, attended the 2012 Olympics and been promoted for the second time in 15 months.
The route from Malmo to here is largely encapsulated in the 948 posts on See That Tattie Run to date, and for that reason I owe it to myself to continue writing it - at least until I choose to call it a day. I have a lot to remind myself about in years to come - it's been a hell of a year so far, which ironically contributes to my lack of time to document it. I've no doubt that there will come a time where I go more than a year between updates; but I'd like to think that what started way back in July 2006 will keep going in some shape or form until I'm well into old age, and form a 'Who do you think you are'/'How I met your mother' (Google (or equivalent) them, readers from the future) for myself in my dotage and anyone else who happens to stop by.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Reading Half Marathon
Two years ago as part of the attempted fund-raising build up for the Mongolia Charity Rally, I took part in the Reading Half Marathon. In all honesty, I'd entered because my mates were, rather than as a deliberate attempt to get sponsorship - just as well, really, as I think I attracted naff all as a direct result of my hour and 56 minutes of effort.
For reasons lost to the mists of time, but blamed squarely on my inability to ignore marketing emails, I'm entered in the race again this year. It's tomorrow morning. I'm getting picked up at 7am.
I'm really nervous this year. I can't remember how I felt in 2010 - I remember that I helped my friends Pino & Stella move flat the day before, and sat in the pub with my mates post-move sipping an orange juice whilst they got progressively more ratted. I recall my co-runners having differing preparations for the event - Euan joined me on the fruit juice, whilst Colin had arrived down from Aberdeen after work on the Friday, gone out on the piss, had a bagel for dinner at 3am, slept on someone's floor and then gone out on the beers again on the Saturday. They both beat me in the race.
This year I haven't managed the miles, but am a faster runner than before. I have managed to avoid smoking as well - last time I fell progressively further and further off the wagon in the final few weeks before the race, and ended up stopping at Beaconsfield services on the way back to London after the run just so I could buy a packet of fags. I've got injured for the first time in February which meant I missed around 3 weeks of training. Looking back over my training plan, I think I managed to do every session in 1 week out of 12. I've not run more than 19km at any point, and I managed that once, 2 weeks ago. Tomorrow, I need to do 21.
So - I've no idea what tomorrow morning will bring. I haven't eaten any dinner yet, I feel queasy and my guts are in turmoil - although whether as a result of nerves or not it's unclear. But I'll give it a crack and see what happens. I'm pinning my hopes on carb gels, which I've never used before but hope they might give me the boost I'll undoubtedly need after my body's energy runs out halfway through. Pretty sure they're probably on a list of banned substances somewhere though. As ever, I just want to finish. Under 2 hours would be amazing, but I can't honestly see how I would manage it - I ran 15km last weekend and could barely move my legs towards the end.
Here's hoping for a boost from the crowd and a tailwind!
For reasons lost to the mists of time, but blamed squarely on my inability to ignore marketing emails, I'm entered in the race again this year. It's tomorrow morning. I'm getting picked up at 7am.
I'm really nervous this year. I can't remember how I felt in 2010 - I remember that I helped my friends Pino & Stella move flat the day before, and sat in the pub with my mates post-move sipping an orange juice whilst they got progressively more ratted. I recall my co-runners having differing preparations for the event - Euan joined me on the fruit juice, whilst Colin had arrived down from Aberdeen after work on the Friday, gone out on the piss, had a bagel for dinner at 3am, slept on someone's floor and then gone out on the beers again on the Saturday. They both beat me in the race.
This year I haven't managed the miles, but am a faster runner than before. I have managed to avoid smoking as well - last time I fell progressively further and further off the wagon in the final few weeks before the race, and ended up stopping at Beaconsfield services on the way back to London after the run just so I could buy a packet of fags. I've got injured for the first time in February which meant I missed around 3 weeks of training. Looking back over my training plan, I think I managed to do every session in 1 week out of 12. I've not run more than 19km at any point, and I managed that once, 2 weeks ago. Tomorrow, I need to do 21.
So - I've no idea what tomorrow morning will bring. I haven't eaten any dinner yet, I feel queasy and my guts are in turmoil - although whether as a result of nerves or not it's unclear. But I'll give it a crack and see what happens. I'm pinning my hopes on carb gels, which I've never used before but hope they might give me the boost I'll undoubtedly need after my body's energy runs out halfway through. Pretty sure they're probably on a list of banned substances somewhere though. As ever, I just want to finish. Under 2 hours would be amazing, but I can't honestly see how I would manage it - I ran 15km last weekend and could barely move my legs towards the end.
Here's hoping for a boost from the crowd and a tailwind!
Monday, February 27, 2012
first 10k of the year coming up...
...and my body's in shocking shape. It would appear that my smoke free lungs have enabled me to run like the wind without noticing - with the result that my knee and foot have both capitulated under the pressure.
I'm annoyed and frustrated; have been training since the beginning of January and anything more than a slow jog causes my knee to scream in pain. My foot joined in for good measure last Monday after I had to walk four kilometres home following my latest knee-tastrophe - I think overcompensating for my lack of leg-bendiness caused me to strain a tendon. Weirdly, all this has happened since I finally splashed out on expensive trainers, supposedly suited to my running style following gait analysis. If anything, they seem to damage me more than my off-the-shelf numbers that did me right for the past 5 years.
Not only do I have a 10K on Sunday (starting and finishing at the old/permanent home of UK Athletics, Crystal Palace stadium, which at least will be good to say I've "competed" in), that I may just about hobble round if tonight's 1:06 training jog is anything to go by, but more importantly the Reading Half Marathon is only 5 weeks away.
I have severe doubts I'll be able to make it all the way round the 22km of the half marathon given I can barely cover 12 at the moment, but I'll give it a go. If this is old age I don't wanna know. I assumed I'd have some sort of adonis-like physique by now with the non-smoking, non-drinking (although admittedly that began again on 03 February) and exercising. As it is, I feel less fit than I do when I don't make any effort at all.
Apologies for the shoddy writing demonstrated in this post by the way. Just a bit ranty today and can't be bothered trying to make it more readable.
I'm annoyed and frustrated; have been training since the beginning of January and anything more than a slow jog causes my knee to scream in pain. My foot joined in for good measure last Monday after I had to walk four kilometres home following my latest knee-tastrophe - I think overcompensating for my lack of leg-bendiness caused me to strain a tendon. Weirdly, all this has happened since I finally splashed out on expensive trainers, supposedly suited to my running style following gait analysis. If anything, they seem to damage me more than my off-the-shelf numbers that did me right for the past 5 years.
Not only do I have a 10K on Sunday (starting and finishing at the old/permanent home of UK Athletics, Crystal Palace stadium, which at least will be good to say I've "competed" in), that I may just about hobble round if tonight's 1:06 training jog is anything to go by, but more importantly the Reading Half Marathon is only 5 weeks away.
I have severe doubts I'll be able to make it all the way round the 22km of the half marathon given I can barely cover 12 at the moment, but I'll give it a go. If this is old age I don't wanna know. I assumed I'd have some sort of adonis-like physique by now with the non-smoking, non-drinking (although admittedly that began again on 03 February) and exercising. As it is, I feel less fit than I do when I don't make any effort at all.
Apologies for the shoddy writing demonstrated in this post by the way. Just a bit ranty today and can't be bothered trying to make it more readable.
Wednesday, February 01, 2012
Smoke signals
Well, I've done it. Barring any catastrophes between now and around 11am tomorrow morning, I will have gone a full month without booze. Well done me.
I do actually feel a bit healthier today - typical. There's an extremely strong chance that I will dive headlong back into the world of alcohol consumption on Friday evening, thus ensuring I'm back in the land of hangovers by Saturday morning. To start finally feeling the benefit of abstinence this late in proceedings is similar to how my hair always looks decently styled when I've finally decided to go and get it cut. It's the equivalent of a puppy knowing it's going to the vet and trying to pretend it's not sick.
Perhaps as worrying as the outcome of my first tentative sips of lager, will be the effect getting back into "normal life" will have on my smoking habit. Or non-habit, as it currently, officially, is. I went all out at the start of January - no booze, start running again (over 70km trudged during the month), and kick the fags. Christmas at my mum's house saw me spending a combined total of hours, alone, shivering in the back garden sucking on a cigarette, whilst J and mum stayed cosy inside, celebrating the festive season in my absence.
I had some patches left but I've tried them twice now - 4 times if you include the additional two aborted attempts (pre-Christmas included) where I've just decided midway through that I'd rather smoke again. It's clear that nicotine withdrawal was not the cause of my repeated relapses. Years after first hearing about it, I decided to buy Allen Carr's "Easyway to Stop Smoking" from Amazon - I've heard multiple testimonials about it, and hey - the book is half the price of one week's worth of nicotine patches.
I have a degree in Psychology hence was sceptical about the effect the book might have on me. Of course, I'm far too smart and savvy to be fooled by some pop psychology. But I'd tried everything else besides hypnotherapy and drugs, so I had to give it a shot. The first few sentences I read, at random, from the middle of the book, convinced me that it was worth a read.
Like a lot of psychological theory, it states the bloody obvious. This is where its genius lies. I was, in a way, one step ahead of the book in that I had already been having the same thoughts it tries to teach running through my head - with every failed attempt to quit, the realisation of how much better your life and health is without fags becomes more and more apparent, never more so than when you get back on them. It wasn't that I wanted to smoke - I hated it. But I was addicted.
Or so I thought. What the book points out is that it is not addiction which keeps you coming back for more, but the brainwashing developed through years of exposure to advertising and peer pressure that somehow cigarettes are in any way a positive thing. This is where I have noticed the benefit to date - I stopped smoking before reading the book, which you're not supposed to do; you're meant to keep smoking whilst you educate yourself to see "beyond the matrix" - to notice how disgusting they taste, to realise that there isn't actually a positive associated with them. I hope, however, that having been through that independently beforehand will prove sufficient, and I will be able to use my new found perspective to stay clear of a relapse. I find myself viewing all smokers as drug addicts at the moment. The most powerful tool in my armoury is reminding myself that no one is a born smoker. Everyone forced themselves to become one at some point. This probably sounds a) obvious and b) stupid to non-smokers; however it really does help me remove that 'jealousy' thing.
Prior to this it had been envy of smokers which lured me back; realising they're just addicts who want to give up too and regret ever starting is a great way to remove that jealousy. The only thing the book doesn't cover, and the one thing I'm hoping I can prevent shouting in my head, is that I have always viewed smoking as an adult pleasure. Yes, it is stupid. But it is a feeling of independence and freedom - I can smoke if I want to. Despite it being for all the right reasons, I do still feel a bit aggrieved that my right as an adult to choose my own destiny has been taken away.
This is, of course, stupid. I also have a right to choose my own destiny by chucking myself off a bridge with a bungee cord attached. Why don't I do that? Because it seems too dangerous. I don't know the figures for death-by-bungee, but am guessing they're marginally less than death-by-smoking.
So - as it stands, I am also a month free of cigarettes once more, and nearing 3 weeks free of nicotine completely. I haven't felt a single craving. This may be due to the book, it may be due to non-drinking, it may be that the rational side of my brain has finally won the argument. Whatever it is, I hope it continues and - as Allen Carr promises - I wake up in the near future knowing I will never smoke again.
I do actually feel a bit healthier today - typical. There's an extremely strong chance that I will dive headlong back into the world of alcohol consumption on Friday evening, thus ensuring I'm back in the land of hangovers by Saturday morning. To start finally feeling the benefit of abstinence this late in proceedings is similar to how my hair always looks decently styled when I've finally decided to go and get it cut. It's the equivalent of a puppy knowing it's going to the vet and trying to pretend it's not sick.
Perhaps as worrying as the outcome of my first tentative sips of lager, will be the effect getting back into "normal life" will have on my smoking habit. Or non-habit, as it currently, officially, is. I went all out at the start of January - no booze, start running again (over 70km trudged during the month), and kick the fags. Christmas at my mum's house saw me spending a combined total of hours, alone, shivering in the back garden sucking on a cigarette, whilst J and mum stayed cosy inside, celebrating the festive season in my absence.
I had some patches left but I've tried them twice now - 4 times if you include the additional two aborted attempts (pre-Christmas included) where I've just decided midway through that I'd rather smoke again. It's clear that nicotine withdrawal was not the cause of my repeated relapses. Years after first hearing about it, I decided to buy Allen Carr's "Easyway to Stop Smoking" from Amazon - I've heard multiple testimonials about it, and hey - the book is half the price of one week's worth of nicotine patches.
I have a degree in Psychology hence was sceptical about the effect the book might have on me. Of course, I'm far too smart and savvy to be fooled by some pop psychology. But I'd tried everything else besides hypnotherapy and drugs, so I had to give it a shot. The first few sentences I read, at random, from the middle of the book, convinced me that it was worth a read.
Like a lot of psychological theory, it states the bloody obvious. This is where its genius lies. I was, in a way, one step ahead of the book in that I had already been having the same thoughts it tries to teach running through my head - with every failed attempt to quit, the realisation of how much better your life and health is without fags becomes more and more apparent, never more so than when you get back on them. It wasn't that I wanted to smoke - I hated it. But I was addicted.
Or so I thought. What the book points out is that it is not addiction which keeps you coming back for more, but the brainwashing developed through years of exposure to advertising and peer pressure that somehow cigarettes are in any way a positive thing. This is where I have noticed the benefit to date - I stopped smoking before reading the book, which you're not supposed to do; you're meant to keep smoking whilst you educate yourself to see "beyond the matrix" - to notice how disgusting they taste, to realise that there isn't actually a positive associated with them. I hope, however, that having been through that independently beforehand will prove sufficient, and I will be able to use my new found perspective to stay clear of a relapse. I find myself viewing all smokers as drug addicts at the moment. The most powerful tool in my armoury is reminding myself that no one is a born smoker. Everyone forced themselves to become one at some point. This probably sounds a) obvious and b) stupid to non-smokers; however it really does help me remove that 'jealousy' thing.
Prior to this it had been envy of smokers which lured me back; realising they're just addicts who want to give up too and regret ever starting is a great way to remove that jealousy. The only thing the book doesn't cover, and the one thing I'm hoping I can prevent shouting in my head, is that I have always viewed smoking as an adult pleasure. Yes, it is stupid. But it is a feeling of independence and freedom - I can smoke if I want to. Despite it being for all the right reasons, I do still feel a bit aggrieved that my right as an adult to choose my own destiny has been taken away.
This is, of course, stupid. I also have a right to choose my own destiny by chucking myself off a bridge with a bungee cord attached. Why don't I do that? Because it seems too dangerous. I don't know the figures for death-by-bungee, but am guessing they're marginally less than death-by-smoking.
So - as it stands, I am also a month free of cigarettes once more, and nearing 3 weeks free of nicotine completely. I haven't felt a single craving. This may be due to the book, it may be due to non-drinking, it may be that the rational side of my brain has finally won the argument. Whatever it is, I hope it continues and - as Allen Carr promises - I wake up in the near future knowing I will never smoke again.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Welcome to a new year
And trust it finds us all in fine fettle?
Big news here is that I'm nearing the end of Day 20 of no alcohol after an impetuous (some would say rash / foolhardy / deranged) decision to have a month off the plonk after New Year.
It's led to being inevitably lumped in with the annual January abstainers and meant I've been subjected to numerous rants outlining the health risks of stopping and then binge drinking as soon as the calendar clicks into February; how I'm an idiot for thinking I'll save my liver this way and that, in actual fact, I'm doing more harm than good by laying off it for a while.
One friend, upon hearing of my efforts for the first time, even sent the following text to me - which, whilst absolutely tongue-in-cheek on her part, is one of the most twisted, brilliant, pieces of reverse psychology I've ever heard:
"You do realise that quitting for a month is one of the signs of alcoholism?"
Love it. How do I prove I'm not an alcoholic?! Shit! Best make sure I go to the pub on a regular basis, for fear I go too long without a drink, thus demonstrating my addiction!
I do get the whole reference to some alcoholics who go cold turkey and then binge drink themselves to oblivion, Ms Winehouse included, but I was already pretty sure I wasn't an alcoholic and certainly hadn't set out to prove anything to myself or others that I was capable of surviving without booze. I'm also not doing it in some puritan attempt to purge myself of the excesses of the Christmas period, which were reasonably subdued in any event.
No, for me, the time of year is just coincidence; I've fancied having a full month off for a few years now, just to see - well - what it's like. Whilst I'm not traipsing down to the local offie at 8am for a top up of Special Brew or even managing to last the pace with my friends these days, I still drink regularly - by which I mean that I don't remember a full 7 day week that has passed without a degree of alcohol being consumed since I reached adulthood way back in 1996.
I'd heard stories about bursts of energy being experienced, and I was just getting bored with the same routine - finish work on Friday, go for something between a single and many beers; wake up with a degree of hangover on Saturday morning, drink again on Saturday night, then spend Sunday feeling at least slightly ropey. I was bored. And at an age where suddenly, all that time spent boozing or recovering from the effects of it starts to look like a waste of the best years of your life.
My last beer was on January 1st when we met friends for a New Years Day meal down the pub; my last 'alcohol-proper' was with breakfast the following morning (*nb, not an alcoholic, honest) when J & I finished off a spare bottle of Bucks Fizz leftover from Christmas. We had the 2nd of January off work as well, before you ask, and made the most of our new found liberation (and the effects of slightly alcoholic fizzy orange juice) to go to a photography exhibition on the South Bank.
So. Nearly 3 weeks in. "How's it going?", you may be wondering. Well... hard to say. It's not proved difficult to stop (thus removing the outside chance I was an alcoholic and just hadn't noticed, which is a bonus) and I've not found myself becoming a hermit at weekends to avoid being put in the path of temptation. I've seen my friends as much, if not more than I did before Christmas but it's been more civilised due in part to it being January - so more "come round for dinner" than "let's spend the afternoon in a sun-drenched beer garden". I have been around people drinking, but have actually only been in a pub once.
I don't think I've been any more or less "fun" than I am when I'm on the booze (although my friends may disagree) - I've found myself being aware of being tired much more quickly though, and in all honesty haven't lasted more than three hours or so before making a move for home. I felt similar before Christmas, however - if anything, the non-drinking just means I now have an excuse to leave everyone to it and head for the exit. You're allowed to be boring if you're sober.
My life hasn't suddenly become any richer or more fulfilling. I haven't picked up any new hobbies; I've not been to anything cultural since the bucks fizz-fuelled photography exhibition trip and I haven't discovered any talents or skills that have been suppressed under a fug of stale Staropramen throughout adulthood. In a way, this is disappointing, but in another it is a positive sign - I have not been wasting some God-given talent, through which I would now be rich and famous; I just don't have one, and whether or not I drink doesn't make the slightest bit of difference. This sounds pessimistic, but it's not meant to. It means I've got to focus on different things if I want to have a more fulfilling life and can stop sitting in a depressed haze blaming beer for my woes. There is an argument that at least I don't have the added handicap of a motivation-sapping hangover getting in the way of my discovering that new release of creativity or perfect job, which may be true.
Up until this weekend, I was, at least, appreciating the lack of hangovers. Sleeping is a pleasurable experience, and it's great to wake up on a Saturday morning knowing that you're pretty well rested. The anticipated surge of energy has yet to appear, however, and I found myself having a total of 19 hours sleep last weekend yet still waking up exhausted on Sunday morning. I'm pretty sure I was very run down by the end of 2011 and that I'm still recovering, which hasn't helped. This weekend, however, I contracted what appears to be Norovirus, or the "winter vomiting bug", which ironically made me feel like I had the hangover from hell for all of Friday and Saturday. I'm just about out of the woods now, in that I've eaten three meals today and haven't yet brought any of them back up, but it's funny that I normally purposefully make myself feel that bad (without the associated puking/pooing) each weekend. Kind of a timely reminder of what I'm missing now that the novelty of being 'dry' is starting to lose its lustre somewhat.
There are still 10 days of my "official" trial remaining, which doesn't seem that long. I can't see me noticing any discernible benefit to be had from abstention in the next week & a half, in which case it will only have proved that there is no point in trying to stop. Booze is not the cause of all ills, and stopping it will not magically cause one's life to improve immeasurably. It takes a lot more effort than that. Which is a result of sorts, I suppose.
Big news here is that I'm nearing the end of Day 20 of no alcohol after an impetuous (some would say rash / foolhardy / deranged) decision to have a month off the plonk after New Year.
It's led to being inevitably lumped in with the annual January abstainers and meant I've been subjected to numerous rants outlining the health risks of stopping and then binge drinking as soon as the calendar clicks into February; how I'm an idiot for thinking I'll save my liver this way and that, in actual fact, I'm doing more harm than good by laying off it for a while.
One friend, upon hearing of my efforts for the first time, even sent the following text to me - which, whilst absolutely tongue-in-cheek on her part, is one of the most twisted, brilliant, pieces of reverse psychology I've ever heard:
"You do realise that quitting for a month is one of the signs of alcoholism?"
Love it. How do I prove I'm not an alcoholic?! Shit! Best make sure I go to the pub on a regular basis, for fear I go too long without a drink, thus demonstrating my addiction!
I do get the whole reference to some alcoholics who go cold turkey and then binge drink themselves to oblivion, Ms Winehouse included, but I was already pretty sure I wasn't an alcoholic and certainly hadn't set out to prove anything to myself or others that I was capable of surviving without booze. I'm also not doing it in some puritan attempt to purge myself of the excesses of the Christmas period, which were reasonably subdued in any event.
No, for me, the time of year is just coincidence; I've fancied having a full month off for a few years now, just to see - well - what it's like. Whilst I'm not traipsing down to the local offie at 8am for a top up of Special Brew or even managing to last the pace with my friends these days, I still drink regularly - by which I mean that I don't remember a full 7 day week that has passed without a degree of alcohol being consumed since I reached adulthood way back in 1996.
I'd heard stories about bursts of energy being experienced, and I was just getting bored with the same routine - finish work on Friday, go for something between a single and many beers; wake up with a degree of hangover on Saturday morning, drink again on Saturday night, then spend Sunday feeling at least slightly ropey. I was bored. And at an age where suddenly, all that time spent boozing or recovering from the effects of it starts to look like a waste of the best years of your life.
My last beer was on January 1st when we met friends for a New Years Day meal down the pub; my last 'alcohol-proper' was with breakfast the following morning (*nb, not an alcoholic, honest) when J & I finished off a spare bottle of Bucks Fizz leftover from Christmas. We had the 2nd of January off work as well, before you ask, and made the most of our new found liberation (and the effects of slightly alcoholic fizzy orange juice) to go to a photography exhibition on the South Bank.
So. Nearly 3 weeks in. "How's it going?", you may be wondering. Well... hard to say. It's not proved difficult to stop (thus removing the outside chance I was an alcoholic and just hadn't noticed, which is a bonus) and I've not found myself becoming a hermit at weekends to avoid being put in the path of temptation. I've seen my friends as much, if not more than I did before Christmas but it's been more civilised due in part to it being January - so more "come round for dinner" than "let's spend the afternoon in a sun-drenched beer garden". I have been around people drinking, but have actually only been in a pub once.
I don't think I've been any more or less "fun" than I am when I'm on the booze (although my friends may disagree) - I've found myself being aware of being tired much more quickly though, and in all honesty haven't lasted more than three hours or so before making a move for home. I felt similar before Christmas, however - if anything, the non-drinking just means I now have an excuse to leave everyone to it and head for the exit. You're allowed to be boring if you're sober.
My life hasn't suddenly become any richer or more fulfilling. I haven't picked up any new hobbies; I've not been to anything cultural since the bucks fizz-fuelled photography exhibition trip and I haven't discovered any talents or skills that have been suppressed under a fug of stale Staropramen throughout adulthood. In a way, this is disappointing, but in another it is a positive sign - I have not been wasting some God-given talent, through which I would now be rich and famous; I just don't have one, and whether or not I drink doesn't make the slightest bit of difference. This sounds pessimistic, but it's not meant to. It means I've got to focus on different things if I want to have a more fulfilling life and can stop sitting in a depressed haze blaming beer for my woes. There is an argument that at least I don't have the added handicap of a motivation-sapping hangover getting in the way of my discovering that new release of creativity or perfect job, which may be true.
Up until this weekend, I was, at least, appreciating the lack of hangovers. Sleeping is a pleasurable experience, and it's great to wake up on a Saturday morning knowing that you're pretty well rested. The anticipated surge of energy has yet to appear, however, and I found myself having a total of 19 hours sleep last weekend yet still waking up exhausted on Sunday morning. I'm pretty sure I was very run down by the end of 2011 and that I'm still recovering, which hasn't helped. This weekend, however, I contracted what appears to be Norovirus, or the "winter vomiting bug", which ironically made me feel like I had the hangover from hell for all of Friday and Saturday. I'm just about out of the woods now, in that I've eaten three meals today and haven't yet brought any of them back up, but it's funny that I normally purposefully make myself feel that bad (without the associated puking/pooing) each weekend. Kind of a timely reminder of what I'm missing now that the novelty of being 'dry' is starting to lose its lustre somewhat.
There are still 10 days of my "official" trial remaining, which doesn't seem that long. I can't see me noticing any discernible benefit to be had from abstention in the next week & a half, in which case it will only have proved that there is no point in trying to stop. Booze is not the cause of all ills, and stopping it will not magically cause one's life to improve immeasurably. It takes a lot more effort than that. Which is a result of sorts, I suppose.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Inspiration & nostalgia
Well done to my old uni mate Gav, with whom I ran the Scotland Run 10K whilst in New York back in April, for completing the New York marathon last Sunday in a superb time of 4hrs 5 mins.
The wonders of modern technology meant I was able to follow his progress around the route and get updates on his lap times - whilst slumped on the sofa in a hungover fug after the Lambeth fireworks display in Brockwell Park the previous night.
It almost - almost - got me back out running again. Work somewhat got in the way this week, which is becoming par for the course; the dark side of technological advances being that I can now connect to my work desktop from the comfort of my own home. Things are hectic and stressful in the office at the moment, and on numerous occasions I've found myself sitting in my spare room at 11pm staring wearily at the screen after putting another 3 hours stint in when I should have been relaxing or spending quality time with my girlfriend (not that the two are mutually exclusive, obviously). Where there used to be a distinct line between work and play, now there is none. I no longer view my home computer as a portal to fun and knowledge; rather it reminds me that I could - and probably should - do some work over the weekend.
Hence I'm determined to spend the afternoon and evening browsing and messing about for leisure today - J is off to look at her friend's holiday snaps and I, alas, am not invited. I haven't blogged properly for months due to the aforementioned work and the Steppe by Steppe blog has died a death before we even got to the start line! It's next on my list to update, before senility takes hold and the internet morphs into some sort of giant thought-based cloud where this type of content no longer exists.
Blogging does feel a bit passé these days, with Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr, Flickr etc all competing for our social updates. None of these, however, provide the level of detail I sometimes want to go into and none of them will allow me to look back in years to come and think "oh yeah! I'd forgotten about that!". This particular slice of web-logging has been on the go since '06, since I was in my twenties, since I was single. Whilst all of that seems not that long ago, the 942 posts that precede this one have captured a huge amount of life, significant events & adventure for posterity. At least it seems that way to me.
Anyway - back to the running. I'm going to creak back out on to the pavements of SW2 tomorrow (assuming no inadvertent drunkenness this evening) in the same pair of trainers I've had since the blog began. I think that 5 years and a few hundred miles of running has finally destroyed them; whilst they still look reasonably good, I get blistered feet every time I attempt to jog more than a couple of kilometres in them. That shouldn't be a problem tomorrow - it's four full months since my Personal Best was smashed in the British 10K, during which time I've pulled on the ex-spangly Nikes a grand total of once. A cheeky wee lap of the park tomorrow may be all I can hope for.
Pay day is next Friday, and I'm determined to finally bite the bullet and get gait analysis and a proper pair of running shoes. Of course, true to form, I've procrastinated so long that I have now moved office to Hammersmith, and after having a branch of Runners Need round the corner from work for 2 years, I now have no idea where the nearest one is. Wait and see - guarantee I end up just fishing a pair of Reeboks out of the bargain bin in JJB Sports instead and then wondering why my knee keeps popping out every time I try to go up hill.
The wonders of modern technology meant I was able to follow his progress around the route and get updates on his lap times - whilst slumped on the sofa in a hungover fug after the Lambeth fireworks display in Brockwell Park the previous night.
It almost - almost - got me back out running again. Work somewhat got in the way this week, which is becoming par for the course; the dark side of technological advances being that I can now connect to my work desktop from the comfort of my own home. Things are hectic and stressful in the office at the moment, and on numerous occasions I've found myself sitting in my spare room at 11pm staring wearily at the screen after putting another 3 hours stint in when I should have been relaxing or spending quality time with my girlfriend (not that the two are mutually exclusive, obviously). Where there used to be a distinct line between work and play, now there is none. I no longer view my home computer as a portal to fun and knowledge; rather it reminds me that I could - and probably should - do some work over the weekend.
Hence I'm determined to spend the afternoon and evening browsing and messing about for leisure today - J is off to look at her friend's holiday snaps and I, alas, am not invited. I haven't blogged properly for months due to the aforementioned work and the Steppe by Steppe blog has died a death before we even got to the start line! It's next on my list to update, before senility takes hold and the internet morphs into some sort of giant thought-based cloud where this type of content no longer exists.
Blogging does feel a bit passé these days, with Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr, Flickr etc all competing for our social updates. None of these, however, provide the level of detail I sometimes want to go into and none of them will allow me to look back in years to come and think "oh yeah! I'd forgotten about that!". This particular slice of web-logging has been on the go since '06, since I was in my twenties, since I was single. Whilst all of that seems not that long ago, the 942 posts that precede this one have captured a huge amount of life, significant events & adventure for posterity. At least it seems that way to me.
Anyway - back to the running. I'm going to creak back out on to the pavements of SW2 tomorrow (assuming no inadvertent drunkenness this evening) in the same pair of trainers I've had since the blog began. I think that 5 years and a few hundred miles of running has finally destroyed them; whilst they still look reasonably good, I get blistered feet every time I attempt to jog more than a couple of kilometres in them. That shouldn't be a problem tomorrow - it's four full months since my Personal Best was smashed in the British 10K, during which time I've pulled on the ex-spangly Nikes a grand total of once. A cheeky wee lap of the park tomorrow may be all I can hope for.
Pay day is next Friday, and I'm determined to finally bite the bullet and get gait analysis and a proper pair of running shoes. Of course, true to form, I've procrastinated so long that I have now moved office to Hammersmith, and after having a branch of Runners Need round the corner from work for 2 years, I now have no idea where the nearest one is. Wait and see - guarantee I end up just fishing a pair of Reeboks out of the bargain bin in JJB Sports instead and then wondering why my knee keeps popping out every time I try to go up hill.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Autumn's here...
...and the wind is buffeting my spare room curtains, thanks to the thoughtful air vent that a former resident / landlord thought might be a useful feature in a bedroom window. No way of closing it, so if you're thinking of coming and spending a weekend as my house guest, probably best to hold off until spring.
Another month-long gap between posts suggests that life has once again been too busy and interesting to bother writing about.
I'm happy to say that both I and the rest of the family made it to the top of Ben Nevis back in September; I'll stick a couple of pics on the blog once I've got them onto Flickr (because you can never pollute the internet too much with duplicate uploads). The mountain's pretty high - higher than I was expecting in all honesty. Yes, it's the tallest point in the UK, but I'd been led to believe it wouldn't be too much of a mission getting up there. There was something other-worldly about walking inside a cloud across the crushed rock that forms the summit - but the trek was definitely worth it.
Whilst halfway up, I learned that Ireland had defeated Australia in the Rugby World Cup, which is currently nearing its denouement as the hosts prepare for what should surely be a walkover against an under par and extremely fortunate French team, who were aided by some shocking refereeing in the semi final which saw Wales - the best team to watch in the whole tournament - play for 3/4 of the game with only 14 men after their captain and best player, Sam Warburton, was sent off for an over-exuberant tackle. Letter of the law 1, Spirit of the game 0. As it transpired, had Wales nailed any one of the 4 kicks they missed during the match, they'd be preparing for the biggest game of their lives now, but it wasn't to be. Ireland, alas, didn't reach the heady heights of their upset in Auckland again, and were comprehensively dispatched by the Welsh in the Quarter Finals. Still, the boys can hold their heads high.
Besides that, our flat was completely redecorated whilst we continued living in it, which was a logistical nightmare of epic proportions but has been well worth it, in that we can now have showers without soaking the plaster on the wall (amazing invention, tiles), although the effect of all the fresh paint is somewhat detracted by the carpets, which were shoddy to begin with but now bear the scars of flamboyant painting by Martin the decorator, who didn't bother covering them as he was told they were being replaced. That, I fear, has been put on ice by our landlord who seemed to baulk at the cost the rest of the decorating amounted to.
At least the place was looking good for the arrival of J's parents on their first trip to see where their daughter hangs out. They seemed to enjoy London town, and seemed happy enough with where we're living - although given I still don't speak Polish, they could have been slagging me off for the whole week for making her live in a squat for all I know. Grasping some basic sentences is back on my list of 'things to do this winter', although yet again is just below 'sit in the pub all weekend'. We'll see how that goes.
Another month-long gap between posts suggests that life has once again been too busy and interesting to bother writing about.
I'm happy to say that both I and the rest of the family made it to the top of Ben Nevis back in September; I'll stick a couple of pics on the blog once I've got them onto Flickr (because you can never pollute the internet too much with duplicate uploads). The mountain's pretty high - higher than I was expecting in all honesty. Yes, it's the tallest point in the UK, but I'd been led to believe it wouldn't be too much of a mission getting up there. There was something other-worldly about walking inside a cloud across the crushed rock that forms the summit - but the trek was definitely worth it.
Whilst halfway up, I learned that Ireland had defeated Australia in the Rugby World Cup, which is currently nearing its denouement as the hosts prepare for what should surely be a walkover against an under par and extremely fortunate French team, who were aided by some shocking refereeing in the semi final which saw Wales - the best team to watch in the whole tournament - play for 3/4 of the game with only 14 men after their captain and best player, Sam Warburton, was sent off for an over-exuberant tackle. Letter of the law 1, Spirit of the game 0. As it transpired, had Wales nailed any one of the 4 kicks they missed during the match, they'd be preparing for the biggest game of their lives now, but it wasn't to be. Ireland, alas, didn't reach the heady heights of their upset in Auckland again, and were comprehensively dispatched by the Welsh in the Quarter Finals. Still, the boys can hold their heads high.
Besides that, our flat was completely redecorated whilst we continued living in it, which was a logistical nightmare of epic proportions but has been well worth it, in that we can now have showers without soaking the plaster on the wall (amazing invention, tiles), although the effect of all the fresh paint is somewhat detracted by the carpets, which were shoddy to begin with but now bear the scars of flamboyant painting by Martin the decorator, who didn't bother covering them as he was told they were being replaced. That, I fear, has been put on ice by our landlord who seemed to baulk at the cost the rest of the decorating amounted to.
At least the place was looking good for the arrival of J's parents on their first trip to see where their daughter hangs out. They seemed to enjoy London town, and seemed happy enough with where we're living - although given I still don't speak Polish, they could have been slagging me off for the whole week for making her live in a squat for all I know. Grasping some basic sentences is back on my list of 'things to do this winter', although yet again is just below 'sit in the pub all weekend'. We'll see how that goes.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Bestival
Ideally, I'd like to say I'm now fully recovered from the glorious weekend that was Bestival 2011, but given I'm nursing a hangover after meeting my friend Helen for 'a pint' to return her tent, and was wearing my Bestival hoodie during the 3 hours in the pub, I'm blaming the festival for my current state of distress.
Just as well, then, that I don't have to get up at 3am tomorrow to catch a flight up north, or attempt to climb Ben Nevis on Saturday. Oh. Wait.
Yep, despite my lungs feeling like they're clogged with half of the Isle of Wight's topography & shrivelled by a lack of non-smoking, and although my legs haven't seen any exercise since the British 10K on 10 July, the charity climb for Marie Curie that we signed up for in January is almost upon us. Flights and accommodation are booked, and all that remains is to get up there and hope the weather and our stamina hold.
Bestival was amazing - something about the atmosphere and site this time made me wander round in a state of cheeriness all weekend. In fact, I'm pretty sure I was positive for an entire 4 days in a row - which hasn't happened to me since I was about 6. The lack of 'must see' bands (from my perspective) meant I was pretty relaxed about where we went and who we saw; my early recommendation for opening band of the weekend (Fenech Soler) were a huge disappointment in the flesh - their stomping tunes let down by a cheesy as hell front man (all sun tan, muscle tee and pretend drum-playing during the instrumentals) and a stage show which suggested they believed themselves somewhat more famous than they are - and after that I was content to shut up and let someone else drive.
Over the course of the weekend I managed to catch Brian Wilson, Public Enemy, Kitty Daisy & Lewis, Frank Turner, Willy Mason (my personal highlight, playing on the bandstand at 11pm on Saturday night to a crowd in the hundreds), Goldie Lookin Chain, PJ Harvey, Toots & the Maytalls, Grandmaster Flash, Bjork, Mogwai and many others who's names and performances are lost in the clouds of my addled brain.
As with most festivals though, it was more about hanging out with your mates rather than ticking acts off a list - with adulthood and increasingly stressful jobs and responsibilities, I don't see my friends as much as I once did, and it was great to just have a long weekend in the company of some of my nearest and dearest, who were all on top form. There was quite an organic flow to who was hanging out with who over the course of the weekend, meaning I got to spend quality time with just about everyone - whilst Helen & Lucy were off raving on Saturday, Jennie & I watched the Cure with Craig before heading off to see Willy Mason; whereas Helen & I were the last two standing on both the opening and final nights. Likewise, Brian Wilson's journey through the Beach Boys' back catalogue took place next to Craig, as we sang our heads off in the sunshine on Friday afternoon. The only person I didn't spend any time alone with was Lucy, but then I live upstairs from her, so she's probably sick of the sight (or at least sound) of me.
The transport organisation on the Isle of Wight was, as usual, abysmal - they're just not prepared for such an influx of people (despite this being, I believe, the 8th Bestival), and their sleepy islander brains seem incapable of making decisions or ensuring any amount of order. I'm basing this sweeping, rude generalisation on the performance of one employee of Hovertravel, who managed to actually make the attempts to get on a shuttle bus worse by trying to organise it than if she'd stuck to her original plan of whistling nonchalantly to herself whilst deliberately looking the other way.
After 4 hours standing in a car park in Ryde, Lucy eventually came to the rescue by catching the eye of a local taxi driver, who gave us his word he'd come back and collect us next. Given the alternatives, we left the scrum waiting for non-existent buses to arrive and took up residence at the edge of the car park. Sure enough, 45 minutes later, Bernie - the nicest taxi driver in Christendom - reappeared and we were finally en route to the festival. As with the trip home in 2009, the travel chaos had its advantages when we reached the site itself, with virtually no queue to get in. Bernie's good deed and cheery banter got us back into the right frame of mind, and set the tone for the rest of the weekend - but it could have been oh so different.
The fancy dress wasn't as well supported this year as previously, which was a disappointment. It seemed the Rock Stars, Pop Stars & Divas theme seemed to fire people's imaginations. Our shop bought outfits looked great though - I'll post some photos once I get the edited highlights onto Flickr. The presence of the Village People on the main stage on Saturday afternoon, combined with the theme, did result in probably the most amusing sight of the weekend - an extremely confused looking bloke (assume drug dealer) being roughly manhandled through the crowd and into a holding area, his arms crushed behind his back by two burly undercover officers dressed as a gay construction worker and a red indian! I'm not entirely sure I agree with the approach of catching someone in the act rather than having a visible presence to prevent the act in the first place, but it was pretty hilarious for the crowd of onlookers - especially as the cops chose to wrestle him to the ground and sit on his back behind a mesh fence which offered no privacy to them or their captive.
Final mention has to go to the weather - it held up surprisingly well for the majority of the weekend (I have sunburn as I write), but on Saturday night the heavens opened and a downpour ensued. As a result, the grass had disappeared from the arena by the time we made it in on Sunday - but was bearable, even if it meant we were unable to sit down. On the final night, however, after waiting for Bjork and the end of festivals fireworks to finish, the rain returned - and this time it had brought its friend gale. One am saw me hanging onto our gazebo for dear life, as a pop up tent popped up from its mooring nearby, sailed through the air, bounced off the top of the gazebo above my head and fly over the back of our 4 man tent. Having got the gazebo down, I returned to my own tent, which was backing onto the path and therefore had nothing to act as a windbreak, and endured one of the most uncomfortable and concerning night's 'sleep' of my life, as the wind flattened the tent down over my face, and imagined objects ripped loose and flew across the camp site towards me.
Thankfully, nothing did actually hit me, we all survived intact, and our trip home was nothing short of miraculous - after leaving our camp site at 9am, we were back in Brixton shortly after 2pm and drinking in the pub by 3. The sun came out, the wind had disappeared and a few pints in the Hootananny was a perfect end to a brilliant, if exhausting, weekend.
Could do with a few more weeks rest though.
Just as well, then, that I don't have to get up at 3am tomorrow to catch a flight up north, or attempt to climb Ben Nevis on Saturday. Oh. Wait.
Yep, despite my lungs feeling like they're clogged with half of the Isle of Wight's topography & shrivelled by a lack of non-smoking, and although my legs haven't seen any exercise since the British 10K on 10 July, the charity climb for Marie Curie that we signed up for in January is almost upon us. Flights and accommodation are booked, and all that remains is to get up there and hope the weather and our stamina hold.
Bestival was amazing - something about the atmosphere and site this time made me wander round in a state of cheeriness all weekend. In fact, I'm pretty sure I was positive for an entire 4 days in a row - which hasn't happened to me since I was about 6. The lack of 'must see' bands (from my perspective) meant I was pretty relaxed about where we went and who we saw; my early recommendation for opening band of the weekend (Fenech Soler) were a huge disappointment in the flesh - their stomping tunes let down by a cheesy as hell front man (all sun tan, muscle tee and pretend drum-playing during the instrumentals) and a stage show which suggested they believed themselves somewhat more famous than they are - and after that I was content to shut up and let someone else drive.
Over the course of the weekend I managed to catch Brian Wilson, Public Enemy, Kitty Daisy & Lewis, Frank Turner, Willy Mason (my personal highlight, playing on the bandstand at 11pm on Saturday night to a crowd in the hundreds), Goldie Lookin Chain, PJ Harvey, Toots & the Maytalls, Grandmaster Flash, Bjork, Mogwai and many others who's names and performances are lost in the clouds of my addled brain.
As with most festivals though, it was more about hanging out with your mates rather than ticking acts off a list - with adulthood and increasingly stressful jobs and responsibilities, I don't see my friends as much as I once did, and it was great to just have a long weekend in the company of some of my nearest and dearest, who were all on top form. There was quite an organic flow to who was hanging out with who over the course of the weekend, meaning I got to spend quality time with just about everyone - whilst Helen & Lucy were off raving on Saturday, Jennie & I watched the Cure with Craig before heading off to see Willy Mason; whereas Helen & I were the last two standing on both the opening and final nights. Likewise, Brian Wilson's journey through the Beach Boys' back catalogue took place next to Craig, as we sang our heads off in the sunshine on Friday afternoon. The only person I didn't spend any time alone with was Lucy, but then I live upstairs from her, so she's probably sick of the sight (or at least sound) of me.
The transport organisation on the Isle of Wight was, as usual, abysmal - they're just not prepared for such an influx of people (despite this being, I believe, the 8th Bestival), and their sleepy islander brains seem incapable of making decisions or ensuring any amount of order. I'm basing this sweeping, rude generalisation on the performance of one employee of Hovertravel, who managed to actually make the attempts to get on a shuttle bus worse by trying to organise it than if she'd stuck to her original plan of whistling nonchalantly to herself whilst deliberately looking the other way.
After 4 hours standing in a car park in Ryde, Lucy eventually came to the rescue by catching the eye of a local taxi driver, who gave us his word he'd come back and collect us next. Given the alternatives, we left the scrum waiting for non-existent buses to arrive and took up residence at the edge of the car park. Sure enough, 45 minutes later, Bernie - the nicest taxi driver in Christendom - reappeared and we were finally en route to the festival. As with the trip home in 2009, the travel chaos had its advantages when we reached the site itself, with virtually no queue to get in. Bernie's good deed and cheery banter got us back into the right frame of mind, and set the tone for the rest of the weekend - but it could have been oh so different.
The fancy dress wasn't as well supported this year as previously, which was a disappointment. It seemed the Rock Stars, Pop Stars & Divas theme seemed to fire people's imaginations. Our shop bought outfits looked great though - I'll post some photos once I get the edited highlights onto Flickr. The presence of the Village People on the main stage on Saturday afternoon, combined with the theme, did result in probably the most amusing sight of the weekend - an extremely confused looking bloke (assume drug dealer) being roughly manhandled through the crowd and into a holding area, his arms crushed behind his back by two burly undercover officers dressed as a gay construction worker and a red indian! I'm not entirely sure I agree with the approach of catching someone in the act rather than having a visible presence to prevent the act in the first place, but it was pretty hilarious for the crowd of onlookers - especially as the cops chose to wrestle him to the ground and sit on his back behind a mesh fence which offered no privacy to them or their captive.
Final mention has to go to the weather - it held up surprisingly well for the majority of the weekend (I have sunburn as I write), but on Saturday night the heavens opened and a downpour ensued. As a result, the grass had disappeared from the arena by the time we made it in on Sunday - but was bearable, even if it meant we were unable to sit down. On the final night, however, after waiting for Bjork and the end of festivals fireworks to finish, the rain returned - and this time it had brought its friend gale. One am saw me hanging onto our gazebo for dear life, as a pop up tent popped up from its mooring nearby, sailed through the air, bounced off the top of the gazebo above my head and fly over the back of our 4 man tent. Having got the gazebo down, I returned to my own tent, which was backing onto the path and therefore had nothing to act as a windbreak, and endured one of the most uncomfortable and concerning night's 'sleep' of my life, as the wind flattened the tent down over my face, and imagined objects ripped loose and flew across the camp site towards me.
Thankfully, nothing did actually hit me, we all survived intact, and our trip home was nothing short of miraculous - after leaving our camp site at 9am, we were back in Brixton shortly after 2pm and drinking in the pub by 3. The sun came out, the wind had disappeared and a few pints in the Hootananny was a perfect end to a brilliant, if exhausting, weekend.
Could do with a few more weeks rest though.
Wednesday, September 07, 2011
Katarzyna Pilarska Photography: Głowa w chmurach, serce na dłoni i Londyn analogow...
We'd the pleasure of welcoming our second guests to the flat (not bad for over a year of living here) last weekend - J's cousin Kasia and her husband.
She's posted her pictures of the trip on her blog - including some taken in Brixton Village and in our neighbourhood. In particular, she has captured our rocking chair (I say 'our'; it's on loan from a friend) in a way I could only dream of seeing, never mind capturing.
Katarzyna Pilarska Photography: Głowa w chmurach, serce na dłoni i Londyn analogow...: Jakże niewiarygodne jest to, że w dzisiejszych czasach człowiek jednego dnia spędza popołudnie w Londyńskim Chinatown, a drugiego dziarsko m...
Trains
Am standing in City Thameslink as I write (the wonders of moderner technology), perusing my preference for overland trains rather than the underground. Had I taken the tube from St Pauls, I'd be relatively hurtling towards Oxford Circus right now, rather than attempting to ignore the couple of pints of IPA that are slowly working their way to their exit point.
But then I'd be squashed in a hot tube with a smorgasbord of travellers across London - whereas here I'm in the relatively subdued and refined surroundings of fellow office monkeys just trying to get homewards after a hard day at work. That's what I'm looking for at this point on a weekday - none of the vocal exuberance of recently-arrived tourists, no shady characters lurking by the doorway. And, leaving Blackfriars station and crossing the Thames, the view (Tower Bridge on one side, the London Eye on the other) reminds me how exciting it is to live in one of the greatest cities on earth, when travel beneath terra firma sees you depart one urban street and pop out in another.
I have Paul Theroux's "The Old Patagonian Express" for company, allowing me to mentally relocate from the Sutton Service to other trains on the other side of the world, and disembarkation in Herne Hill with a walk through the park towards home.
So, then. A more civilised way to travel. And one that means some poor French exchange student doesn't have my beery stench being breathed all over them from close quarters.
But then I'd be squashed in a hot tube with a smorgasbord of travellers across London - whereas here I'm in the relatively subdued and refined surroundings of fellow office monkeys just trying to get homewards after a hard day at work. That's what I'm looking for at this point on a weekday - none of the vocal exuberance of recently-arrived tourists, no shady characters lurking by the doorway. And, leaving Blackfriars station and crossing the Thames, the view (Tower Bridge on one side, the London Eye on the other) reminds me how exciting it is to live in one of the greatest cities on earth, when travel beneath terra firma sees you depart one urban street and pop out in another.
I have Paul Theroux's "The Old Patagonian Express" for company, allowing me to mentally relocate from the Sutton Service to other trains on the other side of the world, and disembarkation in Herne Hill with a walk through the park towards home.
So, then. A more civilised way to travel. And one that means some poor French exchange student doesn't have my beery stench being breathed all over them from close quarters.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Hits on the blog (hits on the blog y'all)
That post title sounds better if you lazily croon it in the style of mid-90s ganja-toking hip hop legends, Cypress Hill. Which is fitting, as I've been experiencing another mini peak in visits to the blog, once again due to a post about music. Or music festivals, in any case.
Last time it was because of Supajam and their free Feis tickets - something I don't really want to be reminded of for the simple reason that they came good on their offer, I ended up absolutely wasted and don't really have any point of reference for the entire event except a dark stain of shame on my subconscious.
This time, there has been a building crescendo of hits on the site (almost scraping double figures per day!) based around the same 6 words: Rock Stars. Pop Stars. And Divas.
I assume some frantic Googling is taking place in desperation for Bestival fancy dress inspiration, with the fun on the Isle of Wight kicking off in a mere 8 days. For once, I'm sorted. Yes, it's a tenuous costume, and yes, I bought it off Amazon. But it'll be a damn sight comfier (and easier to construct) than my efforts of 2009....
Last time it was because of Supajam and their free Feis tickets - something I don't really want to be reminded of for the simple reason that they came good on their offer, I ended up absolutely wasted and don't really have any point of reference for the entire event except a dark stain of shame on my subconscious.
This time, there has been a building crescendo of hits on the site (almost scraping double figures per day!) based around the same 6 words: Rock Stars. Pop Stars. And Divas.
I assume some frantic Googling is taking place in desperation for Bestival fancy dress inspiration, with the fun on the Isle of Wight kicking off in a mere 8 days. For once, I'm sorted. Yes, it's a tenuous costume, and yes, I bought it off Amazon. But it'll be a damn sight comfier (and easier to construct) than my efforts of 2009....
Bestival - my Mr Spoon outfit
it didn't quite work out how I planned in 2009 - when the theme was "Space". It became known as "Pritstickgate", as the forgetting of the eponymous white stick, combined with the mother of all hangovers after a 5am finish the night before, sank me into parcel-taping misery - much to the amusement of my fellow festival-ers.
Wouldn't half mind the weather to be the same this year as back then though.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Steppe By Steppe: Mike & the art of Kangoo maintenance
I've finally got round to putting a new post up on Steppe By Steppe - waxing semi-lyrically (and at length) about our crash course in 'not grinding to a halt somewhere outside Antwerp'. Click on the funky red link to be whisked magically across the ether to my other blog.
Steppe By Steppe: Mike & the art of Kangoo maintenance: Apart from enthusiasm, we didn't have too much in the way of qualifications to suggest it was wise to drive a quarter of the way 'round the ...
Monday, August 22, 2011
Further efforts to deal with the endemic dog poo problem
we didn't see any dog poo on the beach whilst we were there - no doubt due entirely to these genius public health signs
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